The Old Church

Still standing majestic over stretches of green lawn

A silent testimony to the heartless ravages of time,

Its careful makeup stripped, now replaced by grime,

The old church, once a godly umbrella, is pathetically torn.


The kaleidoscopic light streaming in through the windows

Has long ceased to dance upon the stained tile floors.

Happy, devout souls hardly walk in through the doors,

Though dull, it stays stoic to shun the highs and lows.


A revered and celebrated epitome of the Lord’s home

Which greeted and rewarded the believers, their prayers,

Weeps from its leaks and vagrant animals add to its despair,

Refusing to strike and call the town, is an old bell on its dome.


If one cares to enter and flip through its untold history,

They can feel the walls reverberate tales of piety and love

The chants and sweet songs rest proud on its chest-a treasure trove,

The old church is now a lesson, to hold on and never sulk about an injury.

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